


Think Twice

by paigemarie



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Comic), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-26 03:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12050463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paigemarie/pseuds/paigemarie
Summary: Alternatively:Your Armani doesn’t match yourdevil hornsears.Jessica Jones does not need a partner,thankyouverymuch. Not even when a lunatic has unequivocally set their sights on bringing her a drawn-out, painful, macabre demise. Nope. Jessica Jones does not need a fucking partner,thankyouverymuch.Especially not a member of the fuckingpatriarchy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Murdock made it out of the building at the end of The Defenders and returned to life as usual.
> 
> Also, this work is _obviously_ for E. Love u.

Jessica Jones does not need a partner,  _ thankyouverymuch _ .

She’s doing just fine on her own.

_ Just fucking fine. _

Working alone means never being forced to answer anybody else’s schedule – or anybody else, in general. It means never having photos shoved under your nose of snot-faced kids whose devil horns are surely hidden somewhere beneath the layers of  _ slime _ that coat their faces. Working alone means never having to fucking  _ deal _ with anyone – which is exactly what Jessica prefers.

Besides.

The last time she had partners, they collapsed an entire fucking building down on the city of New York and killed enough people that even her conscience, so renowned for being slightly left-of-center, felt a twinge of guilt.

_ Of guilt. _

And Jessica Jones  _ does not do _ guilt.

Guilt is for people who have souls. She lost that bit of herself when Kilgrave’s maniacal voice persuaded her to shove her fucking fist into the heart of a woman who would turn out to be the wife – sorry,  _ late _ wife – of the one man she could fuck without accidentally breakin—

Moving on.

The point is that Jessica Jones does not need a partner,  _ thankyouverymuch. _ So when Matthew Murdock with his expensive fucking Armani suit strides purposefully out of the courthouse while she’s hunched on the ground behind a giant tree doing recon – read: digging up dirt on the ex-wife of her latest client so she can help him win custody of his kids – she doesn’t think twice. (Maybe her body does, but that’s another matter entirely.)

When Matthew Murdock with his expensive fucking Armani suit hails a cab and sends a young woman off in the taxi who looks identical to Jessica’s most recent client – a kind, twenty-something whose husband had been a cheating  _ scumbag _ – she  _ does _ think twice. 

Once to remember the case was pro-bono (which she will  _ deny _ if you ever accuse her outright) and once more to retrieve her flask for a pull of the Hudson Manhattan Rye shoved away at the bottom of her bag. What? It’s been a long day.

There’s no connection.

No connection between her former client appearing to also be Murdock’s latest client. How does she know? Well, his Catholic schoolboy heart is just too  _ good _ to skip out on any pro-bono case within earshot of his freakishly-astute, over-developed hearing.

Chalk it up to a coincidence.

Later, she’ll tell him she doesn’t know why she’s surprised when his head swivels her direction the moment he shuts the door on their, no— _ his _ client, a smirk plastered across his face.

And later, he’ll pretend to not hear her so she doesn’t snap her words back the moment they leave her lips.

Screeching tires jerk her attention from Matt to the very cab he had just hailed – now careening down the street into head-on traffic.

A sickening  _ BOOM  _ fills the air as yellow collides with red. A chorus of shouting begins as people start to comprehend the head-on collision unfolding before them.

_ “Fuck.” _

Jessica hastily shoves her flask and camera into her bag and she leaps to her feet – racing towards the collision.

She drops her bag on the street, sliding to a stop in front of the tangled wreckage. The cab and the truck it had smashed into were crunched, parts strewn everywhere – Legos in the playpen of New York City.

“Fuck,” she says again, louder this time, clawing at the wreckage, stripping metal away from the side of the door because she actually  _ knows _ someone in this fucking mess and so it would be remiss of her to not—

**_BANG!_ **

Jessica is thrown backwards as the cars explode into flames – her head slamming against the pavement.

More shouts fill the air, this time laced with screams from onlookers.

She hears a familiar voice shout, “ _ SOMEBODY CALL 911!” _ as she lurches forward, ignoring her now-blurry vision, diving back into the wreckage, ripping at the metal, pulling it to pieces – because if she can just get  _ closer _ – if she can just move this  _ shit  _ out of the way – if she could  _ just fucking see straight – _

Metal flies backwards from the scene as she tears through the wreckage until—

Jessica stills as her fingertips brush across a sticky residue and she doesn’t have to look down, because even a –  _ even a fucking blind man would be able to tell – _

Her vision focuses on a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Familiar, blue and  _ lifeless _ .

Time stalls as she takes in the scene before her. Jessica is no stranger to death. Hell, she’s fucking  _ killed in cold blood _ .

Yet… somehow, this is different.

The girl belonging to those lifeless, blue eyes was so fucking  _ young _ and so fucking  _ hopeful  _ and so much the fucking  _ opposite _ both Jessica herself and of every other client Jessica sees walk through her doors. People are usually looking for revenge or have a  _ massive fucking chip _ on their shoulder, but she was  _ so. fucking. hopeful. _ that a divorce was going to change her life for the better – was going to give her a fresh start. She was so fucking hopeful that  _ for once  _ in her life, Jessica was actually  _ proud _ of contributing something to society – made even better by that something being evidence that would help sever a tie between the girl and a deadbeat man.

She inhales sharply – is that metal? And while Jessica knows – she fucking  _ knows _ she needs to move before the cars explode again – and why the  _ fuck _ did they explode in the first place? And why the  _ fuck _ is it suddenly so difficult to breathe? Like she’s sucking in  _ tar _ – tar mixed with bitter  _ ash _ , and is that copper? Is that blood?

Later, she’ll tell him she was thinking about the consequences  _ another _ explosion would have on The Defenders’ free reign in New York – I mean, she just didn’t want to have to deal with a New York version of the Sokovia Accords.

Later, he won’t believe her for a fucking  _ second _ .

The flames start to burn through the oxygen, allowing the ash to choke up Jessica’s throat when she returns to the present. She can feel his cool hands softly slide over her own before she can register anything else beyond her initial shock, and she thought,  _ she thought _ she would be  _ used _ to this kind of thing by now so  _ why _ has it rendered her paralyzed?

“ _ Come on _ ,” his voice murmurs into her ear. “It’s too late for them, we need to get you out of here.”

She shakes his hands off because  _ doesn’t he understand _ that if she could  _ just— _

“Jessica.”

His voice again.

Right.

And she can feel the heat, now – it’s sticky and it sweltering and it’s fucking  _ hot in here _ – and so maybe that’s why she lets him take her hands in his own and maybe that’s why she lets the man who wears fucking  _ devil horns  _ when he isn’t wearing Armani gently pull her away from the destruction and maybe that’s why she lets her mind go blank, because there’s just  _ so much blood _ and so maybe that’s why –

Matt manages to pull Jessica out of the smoke just before another explosion rips through the air – obliterating the vehicles, but providing them cover as they escape to safety.

***

“Here.”

He thrusts a mug in front of her.

“Coffee.”

She regards him carefully as he leans back against the wall. Ash and flecks of blood have crystallized on his skin, courtesy of the sweat drying it in place. His hair is a mess and, Jessica notes with a smug feeling of satisfaction, his Armani suit now looks like it belongs on the cover of a 90s grunge magazine instead of in a country club in the Hamptons.

But fuck it all if he doesn’t still look like he belongs right there on the cover as well.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he comments airily as he retrieves her bag from where he had stowed it by the door on their way in and drops it at her side.

Jessica scowls up at him. Fucker.

“I don’t remember claiming it was. Besides, I had it handled before you...  _ intervened _ .”

Matt pulls off his suit jacket and rests it across the back of a chair, loosening his tie and undoing the top button before clearing his throat.

“Sure.”

She just rolls her eyes in response –  _ not that he can fucking see  _ because he’s  _ blind. _

He smirks – sure,  _ blind _ – and presses on. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure they died on impact.” He pauses, a twinge of sadness flashing across his face.

And that makes her feel better...  _ how? _

She takes a moment to regard him, allowing her eyes to flicker over his body as he rolls back the sleeves of his button-up, his biceps straining against the cotton. He isn’t necessarily the most broad-shouldered guy she’s ever met – not that she has any type of  _ expectation _ – but he clearly holds his own. His frame is filled out with a lean muscle – bulky enough to leap around New York in the middle of the night like it’s his job as leader of the patriarchy to single-handedly save every damsel-in-distress who might need her apartment unlocked or her groceries delivered safely or  _ whatever _ it was he fucking did when normal people were sleeping, but lean enough to hold the stamina required to do so.

To clarify – Jessica doesn’t seek out trouble in the middle of the night. Trouble seeks out Jessica – but not always in the middle of the night. Why would  _ anybody _ seek out more trouble than they have to?

Someone who refers to himself as a Devil.

Right.

A great reminder that Jessica Jones does not need a partner,  _ thankyouverymuch. _

Which reminds her.

“You honestly didn’t need to—“  she waves her hand in the air, irritated. “Play Superman or  _ whatever _ .”

He snorts and takes a sip of his coffee, leaning back against the counter like he’s  _ relaxed _ as if they didn’t just walk away from an  _ exploding car _ .

She shoots daggers before reaching into her bag, fumbling around.  _ Not that he can see because he’s  _ _ blind _ _.  _ She was  _ really _ going to have to get better at this.

“There was nothing you could have done. You needed to get out of there,” he supplies casually – as if he had just been wandering around and found himself in the middle of a crime scene and thought it might be  _ prudent _ to intervene just because what  _ else _ would you do to fill your time on a Wednesday afternoon besides save those who might potentially be in danger –  _ not that she was. _ She had it handled.

_ Found it. _ She pulls her flask out.

“Why,” she starts, using her teeth to bite the cork, “the  _ fuck _ ,” she rips the cork out, spitting it onto the table “do you assume I feel guilty? Or that I needed saving?”

He looks amused but doesn’t respond.

The mug is dangerously close to overflowing already. Fuck that. She throws her head back and drains the contents of the flask directly into her mouth.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Leave room for… cream – noted,” he starts. "Look, it was too late to make a difference by the time we got there.”

“Clearly.”

“It was too late to help them,” he adds.

She snorts. "You mentioned that."

“The car was out of control.”

“ _ What? _ ”

He sips from his mug.

_ He sips from his fucking mug. _

“I could hear them,” he pauses for a moment – reflecting? “The driver was panicking. He was trying to stop the car, but the gas pedal was stuck.”

“Hmph.”

Jessica raises the coffee to her lips. She  _ really _ wishes she had something stronger left in her bag.

“Why the fuck were you even there?”

“I was helping her.”

“Yeah,” Jessica scoffs. “If you wanted to help, you should have called an Uber instead of a cab with the crash rating of a fucking  _ Pinto _ being rear-ended.”

Her chair makes an obscene noise as she shoves herself back from the table.

“Well, if we’re done here, I’ve gotta go, Murdock,” she says as she stands.

“I was there because I am—er,  _ was _ her lawyer.”

“Funny. You’d think I would have known that – being her  _ private investigator _ and all – you would think that is something that might have  _ caught my eye _ when I was working her case.”

“I catch your eye?” he raises his eyebrows again, stifling what is sure to be a  _ laugh _ .

“No.” Smug bastard. “Why the  _ fuck—“ _

“New client,” he quickly supplies.

“Interesting  _ coincidence _ ,” she snaps tartly. “And while we’re on the subject of  _ coincidences _ … how the hell did you even know I was there.”

The bastard  _ smirks again _ , raising his coffee to his lips without saying a word.

Jessica lets out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

“ _ Right _ . I’ve gotta—“

**_BANG!_ **

“Jesus,  _ FUCK! _ ” Jessica shouts, lurching backwards, tripping over her chair as her arm flies back behind her and –  _ CRUNCH! _ – crumbles the edge of his countertop when she grips it to keep from falling.

Foggy strides through the door of the apartment – not a care in the fucking  _ world _ .

“So I was going over these briefings, and I think you made a mistake in section C-14,” Foggy begins to speak, completely oblivious to his surroundings. When he doesn’t get a response, he stops walking and peers up from the files.

“ _ Oh _ . Hey, Jess. How’re ya?”

“No. Just—“ she throws her hand up in his face. “ _ No. _ I have had  _ enough _ fucking—  _ explosions _ for one day,” she growls and brushes past a bewildered-looking Foggy on her way out the door.

“Jess, wait up!”

Jess  _ does not wait up _ .

She’s halfway down the stairs before Matt catches her.

“ _ What? _ ” she demands, stalling on the stairs  _ only _ because she doesn’t want to play cat-and-fucking-mouse through Hell’s Kitchen right now.

Matt chuckles as he catches her hand.

Why the  _ fuck _ is he—?

She snaps her hand back so he isn’t fucking  _ touching _ her. He might be blind, but he’s covered in blood and ash and she has enough of that on her body right now,  _ thankyouverymuch _ .

“What?” she implores again because for  _ someunknownfuckingreason _ she is a  _ tiny _ bit interested in what he thinks he has to say.

He reaches down and grasps her hand again, for  _ fuck’s sake— _

“Carmel.”

She stills and his lips turn up in a grin because he knows she knows he can hear her heartbea– the  _ fuck _ is he  _ doing _ rubbing his thumb over her knuckles— and are they  _ bruised? _ And  _ carmel? _

“What?”

Jessica Jones, ladies and gentlemen. Private Investigator. Small Business Owner. One-Fourth of The Defenders. And  _ Master  _ of the English Language.

“Carmel and,” he chuckles lightly, his voice suddenly  _ extremely _ husky, “it’s usually a scotch blend, so—”

He pauses, “malted barley and  _ spice _ .”

He brings his free hand up to lightly brush the hair out of her face.

Is it hot in here? When did it get so fucking  _ hot _ in New York during the summers?

“Sage. Something citrus…  _ Grapefruit _ ,” he murmurs fucking  _ purrs _ as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

“And right now,” he trails his fingertips down her jawline, “ _ ash _ .”

Later, she’ll appreciate that he didn’t point out the smell of copper and blood and  _ sweat _ that was surely soaking up the air between their bodies.

And later, he’ll admit that she also generally smells of sweat and grime and that  _ he can tell _ when she forgets to shower in the mornings.

“Get cleaned up.”

He brushes his thumb over her lower lip.

Is this a  _ thing _ people do when they can’t see? They just  _ invad— _

“It helps clear things up,” he says and taps his finger to his head – presumably where his gigantic, over-sized  _ brain _ hides out, just waiting to fucking analyze the  _ entire world _ that surrounds them – before taking a step back.

“Oh,” she chokes out.

Fucking  **_COMMANDER_ ** of the English Language.

“To answer your aforementioned question, I  _ always _ know when it’s you.”

He flashes her another devastating grin before turning to head back up the stairwell.

“ _ Jesus.” _ And  _ fuck _ , because she knows he can hear her, she tacks on, “you still look like an  _ asshole,  _ Murdock,” before stepping out onto the street.

***

 

“I am  _ officially _ going to fucking die alone, Jess—” 

Jessica blinks and steps into Trish’s apartment.

“He asked me – you’re not going to fucking  _ believe _ this – he asked me,  _ why I couldn’t just learn to write with my other hand! _ ”

Jessica slides both lattes she had picked up at  _ Herkimer Coffee _ on the way over and flops herself onto the couch. Trish still hasn’t stopped ranting – nor has she moved from her position at her computer where she is fiercely typing a hole into the keyboard.

“It’s as if – as if it’s no  _ issue _ not being able to fucking use your right hand,” she presses on, oblivious to Jessica’s entry into her apartment aside from the fact that she had to  _ buzz Jessica in _ and was now speaking to her as if she was yapping away at her listeners on  _ Trish Talk _ . “Like, why would it fucking matter if your dominant hand has suddenly been  _ plagued _ with tendonitis? You have two! Just fucking re-learn  **all** of your motor functions because  **_it isn’t that hard_ ** . It didn’t take  _ thirty years _ to perfect the art of rapid typing and texting. Why not just  _ re-learn it? _ Who the fuck does he even think he is?”

Trish slams the last key on her computer and snaps her laptop shut.

“ _ Iron Man _ ?”

She stands and whirls around to face Jessica.

“Fixing everyone’s fucking prob—  _ holy SHIT _ !”

Trish’s eyebrows shoot up as she rushes over to the couch.

“Were you fucking  _ LARP-ing _ Game of Thrones? Why are you covered in  _ blood _ ?!”

Jessica rolls to her side and regards Trish for a moment before reaching out to push the latte she got for her sister forward and flopping back onto the couch, throwing her arm over her face because while Trish is usually the dramatic one, Jessica  _ did _ manage to break the fucking sink when they were kids just to make a point to their mother that she needed to  _ fuck off  _ and stop leaving bruises as a form of discipline on the flesh of her kids and so maybe,  _ just maybe _ , Trish wasn’t the only one who could be dramatic.

“No.”

Trish picks up her latte and takes a sip. “Jesus, Jess. Did you pick these up looking like that? Poor barista. What kind of reputation are you going for, anyway? Executioner for The Defenders?”

“Not funny, Trish.”

The blonde-haired girl’s expression immediately softens. “I’m sorry, Jess.” She asks as she slides onto the couch adjacent to where Jessica’s body is spread out like a drunk twenty-year-old at a Sigma Alpha Epsilon frat party during their freshman year.

“What’s going on?”

Jessica huffs loudly and sits up, leaning forward to grab her latte.

“One of my clients died today. Fucking car explosion.”

“Jess, that’s—well, that’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she nods her head, still staring at her latte. “Apparently the gas pedal got stuck. But then it went up in flames. Like, the whole intersection just fucking— **_BOOOOOOOOM_ ** !”

Jessica mimes the explosion.

Trish makes a  _ tsk _ -ing sound and arches her brow.

“ **_BOOM?_ ** ”

“Something like that.”

“Right. And you know the gas pedal was stuck, because…”

Jessica takes a long, measured sip of her latte – gingerly placing it back on the table before finally meeting Trish’s eyes and shrugging.

“I just do,” she says quietly looking down at her bruised knuckles. They really should get healthcare if they’re going to  _ save _ New York – even every now and then – but then again, she didn’t exactly save anyone today, did she?

“Right,” Trish responds, shaking her head in disbelief, but doesn’t press. When Jessica doesn’t say another word, she swiftly changes the subject because if Trish Walker has learned one thing over the course of their childhood it’s that if Jessica Jones doesn’t want to talk about something, Jessica Jones is  _ not going to fucking talk about something. _

“Hey, did you RSVP to Danny’s wedding?”

Jessica lifts her head to scowl at her sister.

“No? Okay, because I did for you.”

“Whatever,” Jessica says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They know I’ll be there. RSVP-ing is irrelevant.” She stands and starts to pace around the room. “What I’m trying to figure out is how a gas pedal gets so  _ stuck _ that a taxi cab can go from zero to sixty in the span of two blocks _. _ ”

“Should have used Uber,” Trish comments, raising her latte to her lips again.

Jessica snorts.

“That’s what I said.”

“So this cab,” Trish ventures ruefully, “if it accelerated like—“

“—like it was being powered by Quicksilver,” Jessica supplies.

“Isn’t he dead?”

Jessica shrugs her shoulders.

“Okay, so it accelerates  _ really fucking quickly _ … and then  **_BOOM_ ** ,” she imitates Jessica again. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me, Jess. Cars don’t normally explode like that.”

Jessica stops pacing and flops back onto the couch again.

“Your incredible insight has been  _ greatly  _ appreciated, Professor Trelawney,” she drawls.

“Don’t be an asshat. I’m trying to help. What I  _ mean _ ,” Trish presses on, ignoring the daggers Jessica is now throwing into her direction, “is that maybe you should figure out why there could be a  _ reason _ the car accelerated so quickly. A  _ reason _ there was an explosion.”

“Yeah, I— “

“No,” Trish interrupts. “A  _ reason. _ What  _ reason _ might somebody have to make those  _ particular passengers _ —“

“—accelerate head-on to their –” she mimics the explosion  **** _ “ _ – fiery downfall in the middle of an intersection,” Jessica finishes slowly.

Trish shrugs, using her hands to mimic the explosion but not speaking another word.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Jessica spits out. “Jesus fucking  _ shit _ .”

She moves to stand but pauses, “thanks, Trish. What were you saying about being single forev—“

“ _OH,_ ” Trish moans – her attention officially diverted. “Colin is a member—no, the _leader_ —of the fucking _I-can-fix-all-of-your-problems-because-they-aren’t-real_ **_patriarchy_** , and I’ve wasted _three months_ going on dates with the man and he hasn’t even licked my—“

“Thanks, Trish,” Jessica cuts in, leaping to her feet. “Gotta go!”

Trish rolls her eyes as Jessica makes her way towards the door.

“You know, having a man go down on you isn’t  _ taboo _ to talk abo—“

“It is when you can  _ break them  _ if you—Good luck with the patriarchy,” Jessica calls out behind her as she effectively dislodges herself from the conversation  _ and _ Trish’s apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 E again. bc u will always b my tru parabatai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumbl with me](http://bit.ly/2xZWIG7)

Jessica spends most of the walk back to her apartment scowling at anybody who looks her direction. It’s getting dark and she can feel the caffeine buzzing through her veins.

Good.

She counts on the caffeine during nights like this. Nights where the actions of the day and the implications of tomorrow promise to keep her mind racing and her heart pounding through sunrise – not quite awake, but not quite asleep. Nights like this hold her at the cruel edge of sleep – where dreams become tangible nightmares and nightmares become tangible situations she can't wake herself from. Nights like this bring on nightmares that feel _so damn real_ that by the time she _does_ wake up, she’s covered in sweat and stuck vacillating between her desire to slide back into sleep and her repudiation to grant her subconscious any more power than it already holds.

Jessica doesn’t trust many people – but she trusts her subconscious the least.

So, on nights like this, she counts on the caffeine.

She counts on the caffeine to keep her mind sharp enough to control her subconscious.

She counts on the caffeine until she counts on the alcohol to dull her memories.

Then, she counts on the sleeping pills to finish the job.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

And before your egotistical, Wikipedia-educated brain starts to leer – remember that your demons have _abso-fucking-ltely nothing_ on the ones who have taken up permanent residency in Jessica’s mind.

She can hear the noise of the television – some sporting event with obnoxious fans yelling and chanting – before she even kicks her apartment door open.

“Jesus,” she mutters.

Malcolm is lazily sprawled out across the couch – looking completely at home as he crunches bright, orange carrot sticks between his teeth. He shifts his gaze from the television – which seems to be chanting at her dramatic entrance – to her face and his eyes instantly fill with a combination of curiosity and laughter.

“Have a run-in with Karen’s long-lost boyfriend, did you?”

“Get out.”

He ignores her. “Not until you explain,” he makes a circular gesture – pointing his carrot at her, “this.”

Malcolm had all but moved into her apartment following that day when she had walked in to find him re-painting the place. Aside from forcing Jessica to redecorate – because _honestly,_ the cases would be so much _easier_ , Jessica _,_ if people weren’t shaking in _fear_ as they asked for help or re-told stories of ominous signs and missing people – Malcolm had also dropped words like _LLC_ and _late fees_ and _EINs_ until Jessica broke down and finally let him incorporate _Alias Investigations_ so that the IRS wouldn’t join the rest of the world in targeting Jessica Jones for, well, _existing._ When he started to talk to her about a _W-4 form_ – explaining that as a _reformed addict_ , he needed to introduce stability into his life – she threw her hands up in despair and said she didn’t give a fuck _what_ he did, as long as he stopped bringing it up.

Besides. Jessica presumed she was about the _least_ stable person she knew. And she knew Danny Rand.

Yet, she realized it would be easier to just give in to Malcolm. He was helpful when it counted, anyway, pointing out the blaringly obvious when Jessica was too stubborn to see what was right in front of her eyes. He also knew when she was in a normal bad mood and when it was time to _actually_ recuse himself from a situation. Most people never knew when to quit – and so for this reason, and his sudden encyclopedic knowledge of small business tax filing laws, Jessica let Malcolm and his fucking carrot sticks stay.

She still refuses to order business cards for either of them, though, because _fuck that._

She drops her bag on the counter and walks towards her bedroom – peeling off layers of clothing that are covered in grime and dirt and sweat and blood.

“Tomorrow. Now fucking _go_ ,” she growls, pushing him back through the doorframe and shutting the door between him before he can argue.

She can hear him shouting through the doorframe. “I’m watching the end of this game first!”

***

“So, I pulled up the photos—”

The contents of the bag she had dispatched the previous night were spilled out across a coffee table.

“—absolutely _no_ personal space since you’ve started—,” Jessica grumbles as she pads out of her bedroom the next morning to find Malcolm sitting at her desk – looking spectacularly unfazed at her complaints of his presence, “—not even the _decency_ to bring—”

He cuts her off by pushing a coffee cup in her direction.

“—and I think this one might be helpful,” Malcolm declares, sliding back from the desk so that Jessica can drop into his seat and survey the screen. He points to a photo of a tall, slender woman in a grey coat that brushes all the way down to her knees. She is wearing thick, oversized sunglasses and is shoulder-to-shoulder with a man who, despite wearing his own sunglasses, appears younger somehow. “All of Mrs. Robinson’s – uh, _companions_ – seem to be at least half her age.”

“Because they’re _vampires,_ ” Jessica mutters sarcastically, zooming in on the photo to get a closer look at the man in the frame.  Malcolm makes a noise of disbelief – _impatience_ – at the back of his throat.

“Yeah, I can see the blood,” he retorts.

She shrugs. “Why _else_ would they be wearing sunglasses in the middle of a cloudy day?”

“Protection for their sensitive eyes—,”

She turns and squints her eyes at Malcolm – her tone shifting away from sarcasm, “or… protection _against_ sensitive eyes—”

“So nobody recognizes them?”

“So nobody recognizes them _together_ ,” Jessica answers, clicking through to the next photo. “Every time I’ve seen her outside of her apartment, she’s been with this same man – and every time, they’ve been wearing hats and sunglasses and trench coats... and it’s fucking _humid_ in New York right now.”

 

“How do we know it’s the same man? I mean,” Malcolm scoffs, “he’s always covering his face. She could have a harem of gentlemen suitors—”

She points to where the man’s hand is clasping a briefcase. “He’s always wearing this silver ring. Look,” she zooms in closer on the photograph, “it looks like angel wings – but the center uses negative space to create the silhouette of a devil.” ([ Image ](http://enpundit.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/negative-space-illustrations-enpundit-3.jpg))

Malcolm just stares at her.

“Uh, yeah. I definitely do not see that.”

Jessica makes an irritated noise and zooms in closer – the photograph is completely pixelated at this point. Maybe if she still had a decent fucking _camera_ , Malcolm could see the ring. But Matt had smashed that opportunity in a fit of what she refuses to refer to as anything _but_ demonic rage.

Malcolm gets closer to the screen. “If I say I believe you, does that count?”

Jessica rolls her chair back in frustration. “Sure. I recognize it. I don’t know where from, but I do.”

“Okay, so you recognize this angel-hiding-devil ring because demons and vampires are apparently your—” he waves his hand in the air, scrambling to find a word. “– _thing_ right now. But how do we use that information to find whoever this is? And to prove that Mrs. Robinson is actually cheating on our client with the wanna-be-bloodsucker? Google?”

“I don’t know.”

“She doesn’t know,” he teases. “Okay, well what if we start by doing a reverse trace of the image in a Google search.”

She shoots him a dirty look. It’s too early for her to be patronized in her own damn apartment.

“What?” Malcolm protests. “That was only partially a joke, you know. If you have an image, you can drop it into Google and do a reverse search and it will show you everywhere the file has been sourced from online. We just need to get this one,” he points to the image on the screen, “cleaned up a bit.”

“Did you also get a degree in graphic design while you were in rehab?”

He ignores her and heads over to the spilled contents of her bag, rummaging around until he finds her phone. He walks back over to Jessica and sticks it into her face. “Here, ask your sister for help. If we can figure out who this guy is, we’re one step closer to winning Julian custody of his kids.”

Jessica rolls her eyes at him before taking the phone.

***

 _10:02AM:_ **u still talking to colin?**

 _10:02AM:_ _I’m not sure if talking is the correct term._

 _10:02AM:_ _Why?_

 _10:03AM:_ _My new assistant is incompetent._

 _10:03AM:_ _She has been emailing notes from meetings_

 _10:03AM:_ _One._

 _10:03AM:_ _Email._

 _10:03AM:_ _At._

 _10:03AM:_ _A._

 _10:04AM:_ _Time._

 _10:04AM:_ _Wasn’t that annoying, just now?_

 _10:04AM:_ _When your phone buzzed 11 times instead of once?_

 _10:05AM:_ **fire her**

 _10:05AM:_ **are u still fucking* colin?**

 _10:05AM:_ _I’m going to. Do you realize how irritating this has been?_

 _10:06AM:_ _I can’t search for a new assistant every other week_

 _10:06AM:_ **just choose someone**

 _10:06AM:_ **answer my q**

 _10:07AM:_ _Hey, would Malcolm come fill in while I search for a new one?_

 _10:07AM:_ _He remembered coffee every morning last time and understands email codes of conduct_

 _10:09AM:_ **no**

 _10:09AM:_ _Yes. Why do you ask?_

 _10:10AM:_ **would he unpixelate this photo**

 _10:10AM:_ _I’ll ask._

 _10:11AM:_ **trish**

 _10:11AM:_ _He’ll do it._

 _10:11AM:_ _He won’t tell anybody._

 _10:12AM:_ **ty**

 _10:12AM:_ _When will Malcolm be here?_

 _10:14AM:_ **no**

 _10:17AM:_ _Should I plan for 11am arrival?_

 _10:17AM:_ **trish**

 _10:17AM:_ _Fine, but I don’t see how this is fair._

 _10:17AM:_ _I’m the one who deserves a competent assistant_

 _10:20AM:_ **he told me to tell you he is my associate**

 _10:20AM:_ **idk what that means**

 _10:20AM:_ **lmk when colin texts back, ok?**

 _10:20AM:_ **k thanks trish**

 _10:21AM:_ **don’t fire me as ur sister for the multiple texts**

 _10:22AM:_ **love u**

 _10:23AM:_ **!!!**

 _10:25AM:_ _Sure Jess. I’m on-air in 30. Bye._

***

“Great! So now that we have _that_ taken care of… are you going to tell me why you walked in looking like The Punisher post-battle.”

Jessica scowls at Malcolm and crosses her arms. Right. _That_ conversation. She knew she could continue to ignore Malcolm – but she also knew he would never stop annoying the fuck out of her until she told him what had happened. Malcolm was nothing if not efficient and persistent. She would know.

She’d changed the lock on her door half a dozen times before giving up.

“A bomb.”

He blanches. “A _what?”_

She turns and reaches for the cupboard, rummaging around inside until she finds the box of Pop-Tarts she had hidden behind Malcolm’s weird, organic fair-trade coffee bean bags that she refused to admit tasted any different than the ones she usually snags from 7-11. She rips the package open with her teeth.

“Remember Jessa?”

“Our last client? Of course.”

Normally, Malcolm would have made a sarcastic remark – but something about the way Jessica was refusing to meet his eyes pushed him to keep his thoughts to himself.

She snorts. “Sure. Yeah, anyway – she was in a taxi yesterday outside of the courthouse and it blew—”

“A taxi blew up? When she was inside of it? Where were you?!”

“—and I tried to,” she sucks on the Pop-Tart, the sweet cherry flavoring a stark contrast to the bitter feelings rising up inside of her, “—I was in front of the courthouse and – I tried to pull her out of the wreckage. Too slow.”

A look of pity crosses Malcolm’s face, but he knows better than to vocalize any feelings of the sort.

“So, what junkyard are we heading to?”

Jessica makes a face. “Somehow, I don’t think Mrs. Robinson’s – _brothel_ – nor the corpse of our former client will be found in a junkyard.”

Malcolm stands, grabbing Jessica’s jacket from the floor and tossing it at her before pulling on his own.

“Yeah, but the taxi parts will be.”

***

 _4:08PM:_ don’t forget about tomorrow

 _4:09PM:_ jess? trish said you were coming

 _4:09PM:_ we are so excited to have u as a bridesmaid!

 _4:11PM:_ see you at 10!

 

 _4:30PM:_ _Would it kill you to make an effort with Danny’s fiancé?_

 _4:32PM:_ **probably**

_4:32PM: You’re impossible._

_4:35PM:_ **she does that annoying thing all couples do**

_4:35PM: Admitting you have feelings for somebody else isn’t annoying, it’s human._

_4:36PM:_ **we speak**

_4:36PM: What?_

_4:37PM:_ **we can’t wait for you to come to our wedding**

 _4:37PM:_ **we love hydrangeas**

 _4:37PM:_ **we think crest is the best brand of toothpaste**

 _4:39PM:_ **…**

 _4:40PM:_ **we want everyone to know we think the same mundane thoughts**

 _4:40PM:_ **we have the same emotions**

 _4:40PM:_ **we live the same life**

 _4:41PM:_ **we are the same, boring person**

_4:42PM: You’re impossible._

_4:43PM:_ **stop forcing friends on me, trish**

_4:43PM: Stop projecting your relationship insecurities on me, Jessica._

_4:44PM:_ **i’m insulted you think i would ever want to be a we**

_4:45PM: You would if it was Matt asking._

_4:45PM:_ **fuck you**

 

_5:00PM: Leave your flask at home tomorrow._

_5:00PM:_ **no promises**

_5:01PM: Yes, promises._

***

The junkyard is closed.

“Of fucking course,” Jessica mutters, thoroughly annoyed. “We came all the way to fucking _Brooklyn_ , and it’s closed. It’s not even dark yet.”

That’s a lie – it’s past sunset, but it isn’t _midnight_.

They had spent all day milling about the city – from junkyard to junkyard – examining anything that looked _remotely_ like charred taxi remains. So far, they have come up empty. On a final whim, they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and happened upon a junkyard along the East River.

“Something tells me this junkyard isn’t really open… like… _ever_ ,” Malcolm says, surveying the scene in front of them. It looked more like a graveyard for the disenchanted metal cast aside by car manufacturers – or, as they were hoping, from cars totaled beyond repair. Three of the walls were cement and rose up at least ten feet. The one they were facing, with a gate, was chain-link “But something tells me this is what we’ve been searching for,” Malcolm murmurs, pointing to the back wall – which has a heap of charred metal in front of it.

“Plus,” he adds, “we’ve been to _every other junkyard_ in this city. Process of elimination.”

Jessica strides forward, her hands brushing over the lock – but before she can smash it, Malcolm cuts in.

“Jess, you can’t.”

“This was _your_ genius idea,” she snaps back. “We’ve been out here all day and your morals are kicking in _now?”_

He shrugs his shoulders. “No protests, but here—” he tosses the camera in her direction – which she catches by the edge of its strap, “hop over. Breaking that lock is only going to draw attention to you. This junkyard wasn’t even _in_ Yelp. Whoever is behind this isn’t going to take a break-in lightly. You can fill me in tomorrow.”

***

Jessica sticks her fingers through the chain-link and climbs up the fence – twisting her body at the top and dropping to her feet on the other side. She pauses to survey the scene – mostly to reassure herself that she is still alone.

She is, so she heads towards the back wall – congratulating herself for a moment that they had found this unlisted junkyard in the first place. Sure, it had taken all day, but Jessica was becoming more adept with using resources to solve her crimes rather than just following people around – not that she would _ever_ admit to Malcolm that his suggestions were useful. He would demand another shelf in her refrigerator and there was already far too much greenery in there. After searching every junkyard they could find, they had found this place by looking through listings of old automobile shops that had been abandoned. There was a sign for a junkyard on the fence – just no listing online. Seemed reasonably normal. Not everybody loved the internet.

Later, she’ll remember her mistake in thinking _anything_ in her life could be this easy.

Nothing is _ever_ easy for Jessica Jones.

When Jessica reaches the charred wreckage pile of what could have been a taxi in its former glory, she sees a greeting card envelope wedged between the pieces of yellow and silver metal. Despite burn marks covering the entire mess of what remained from the accident – the envelope was a clean, pristine white.

A shiver runs up her spine.

She considers leaving. She doesn’t _need_ any kind of practical experience to know this was a bad sign – she can feel it in her gut. She’s seen the horror movies. Clues didn’t just _materialize_ like this. Especially clues in _envelopes_.

People don’t gift-wrap their help.

Later, she’ll refuse to open a single greeting card from anyone ever again.

“It’s not going to open itself.”

She takes one look at his _devil costume_ and chokes on her words.

“Should I even bother to _ask_ what you’re doing here _?_ ”

He smirks and stalks closer to her and the wreckage.

It all happens at once – Matt reaches for the envelope at the same time Jessica reaches for the envelope at the same time _the taxi fucking blows up._

It’s like bad déjà vu.

They are thrown at least twenty feet backwards by the blast – and Jessica finds her head slamming into the ground for the second time in 48 hours. “What the _fuck?_ ” she groans, blinking slowly as she sees a hooded figure materialize out of the explosion.

Matt pulls the envelope – which she somehow managed to hold onto during the explosion – and shoves it into his suit. She makes a noise of protest – which he immediately cuts off by pointing to his suit, “Kevlar. _Later.”_

She blinks. More of the hooded figures are emerging from behind the flames at a menacingly slow pace that would seem graceful if they weren’t appearing from a _junkyard explosion_ like some bad rendition of the grim reaper done on too short of a budget.

“ _GET UP!_ ”

Matt shouts, ripping the baton from his suit and crouching like a fucking _tiger_ as the hooded figures descend upon them – the charred remains of the taxi now a blazing bonfire behind the miniature army. Jessica realizes she can’t tell if they are walking or floating and that, above all else, makes her really, really wish she was unconscious. It would be so much better than whatever _this_ is.

Jessica manages to shove herself to her feet as Matt leaps forward, whipping his baton towards the advancing figures. His baton slices through the closest one – cleanly ripping the monster in half. Jessica doesn’t pause to wonder why there isn’t blood spilling out from beneath the hood, she just starts running. Her fist makes contact with what she hopes is the nose of the first one at the same time her fingers reach through the face of another where the eyes should be.

Except, there aren’t eyes. Just holes.

Fleshy, human eye sockets with _nothing in them_.

An unsettled feeling begins to coil in the base of her stomach, but she pushes it down and uses the grip her fingers were granted from the empty eye sockets to rip down – tearing through the front of the face and clean into its chest. Still, there is no blood – just a loud, ringing noise in her ears.

She realizes they are moaning and at this point – she’s less creeped out than she is fucking _pissed_ . “Shut _UP_ ,” she yells, using the two crumpled bodies beneath her hands as leverage to push up – launching her body away from them and twisting in the air so that she lands on her feet in front of two more of the hooded figures. Jessica reaches out, smashing their skulls against each other before they can register her presence and reels around on instinct to protect her back – kicking through the chest of another.

Suddenly, and with more speed than Jessica has seen so far from these monsters, a very cold hand grips the side of her face and braces it while another punches straight into her throat. Jessica’s hands rush to her neck as she chokes on air and stumbles backwards – coughing wildly. What these unhuman monsters lacked in blood and basic human body parts, they seemed to make up for in strength.

Before her instincts can even kick in – because, hey, she may have super strength but she doesn’t have the fucking _Sight_ and it caught her by _surprise_ – a red flash is whipping through body of the moaning figure and it is falling to her feet. Another strange, blood-less figure cut clean in half. She kicks away the slightly-more-than-disturbing corpse and turns to see Matt flip around – his back to hers. She faces in the opposite direction as him as they both pause, breathing heavily – Jessica still with one hand around her throat, checking to make sure it is still in-tact.

“I _had that_ ,” she snaps as they turn in a slow circle – taking in the mess of bodies and body parts. The fire is still crackling.

He doesn’t respond and she knows he’s surveying the scene the best he can without sight – which is a lot better than most people would be able to do even _with_ sight as an advantage. Another moan comes from the general direction of the fire and they both snap their heads around to see more of the hooded figures emerging.

“What the _fuck_ are these things?”

“I’m not waiting around to find out,” Matt responds, reeling around – apparently deciding it is safe for them to make an escape – and rushing to the fence.

Jessica doesn’t hesitate in following suit.

They hop the fence and before she has even landed, Matt is grabbing her arm to pull her around the corner of one of the cement walls and into an alcove. She moves to protest but he claps his hand over her mouth. She bites him. He tastes like salt. Sweat and salt and – no. No, she doesn’t want to consider the metallic taste.

“Did you just—”

“Don’t fucking muzzle me,” she hisses – seeing the stairs and making the connection he had failed to vocalize before _dragging_ her in this direction. She turns and pulls herself up onto the emergency escape as quietly as possible. Of course, she still manages to bang her knee against the building on her ascent. Matt follows – soundlessly, of course, and without banging any limbs against concrete because he’s _a perfect fucking hero_.

She rolls her eyes. Whatever.

When they reach the top of the building, they crawl over to the ledge facing the junkyard and press their bodies flat against the roof – peering down over the edge.

The bonfire is now much, _much_ bigger than before – growing to encompass the majority of the junkyard. She opens her mouth and Matt cuts her off with a finger to his lips. Normally, she would be irritated – but she knows he’s using his freakish-Spidey-senses to listen, so she doesn’t say a word. She leans her chin against the ledge – eyes sweeping the fire as it grows and grows and grows.

“ _Sirens,_ ” he breathes quietly. If she squints, she can see them coming down 2nd Avenue. “I can’t hear them anymore. Where could the rest have gone so quickly? They moved so slow…”

Jessica snorts. “ _Some_ of them,” she mutters, doing her best to keep he voice down.

“A normal person would be thanking me right now,” he quips back – grinning impishly.

“A normal person wouldn’t be stalking me.”

He just smirks.

Their attention is pulled back to the street below – as firetrucks pull into the street before the junkyard and get to work extinguishing the blaze. Matt crawls back from the ledge and stands up. Jessica takes one, last look down and backs away as well.

“Let’s go.”

***

“Letter.”

They’re standing in the shadows beside Jessica’s apartment building. Matt had insisted on heading back to Hell’s Kitchen with her – and despite her protests, his argument that they were _basically_ heading to the same place and that it would be _useless_ to take different routes was actually pretty logical.

Sometimes, logic sucks.

Jessica extends her hand out. He looks down at it, a grimace filling what she can see of his face – which is pretty much just his mouth because of his stupid devil-horned suit.

He chuckles. “It’s too much to hope that you would just forget about this letter, isn’t it?”

“Well, clearly it was too much to hope that you would be honest about why you’ve been stalking me.”

“I _was_ being honest,” he tries. On the walk back, Matt had brushed his presence off by insisting he wasn’t _following_ her until he saw her hop the junkyard fence – telling her he had been on the other side of the Williamsburg Bridge for a _different_ lead.

Yeah, right. Matt Murdock didn’t really care about much that happened outside of Hell’s Kitchen unless it impacted something happening _inside_ of Hell’s Kitchen.

He smiles. “You’re not wrong. _You’re_ from Hell’s Kitchen.”

 _Oops_. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She licks her lips – unsure of how to respond.

“Letter, Murdock. Now.”

He reaches inside of his _devil costume_ and pulls the letter out. “Let’s – can we open it together?”

“No.” She snatches it from his hand and turns to walk away – but he catches her wrist, a frustrated noise catching in the back of his throat. She pauses. Relents. Turns back to face him – eyes glued to the envelope and not his face nor the place where his fingers clasp around her wrist. “You were helpful tonight, but I don’t need a partner.”

Another strangled noise. Is he choking? Jesus.

“Jess—” he starts. She turns her face away from him – but her feet are still glued to the ground and she can’t, can’t, _can’t_ will them to move for some _fucking_ reason. She knows she’s acting like a petulant child and that he is only trying to help – because that is what Matt Murdock has done since the death of Elektra. Helped people. But she doesn’t fucking _want_ his pity and so she doesn’t fucking _want_ his help because she doesn’t need any more men in her life looking at her and seeing the ghost of their dead ex-lover. But he _did_ save her face from being ripped off, so she remains still. Jessica closes her eyes and focuses on steadying her breathing – in, out, in, out, one, two, one, two – and doesn’t let herself wonder what the _fuck_ is going on in her mind and why the _fuck_ she is allowing herself to feel like she owes him anything – even her presence.

It doesn’t work.

His thumb traces a circle on the inside of her wrist – burning a path along the blue veins under her sensitive skin to match the blaze they had just escaped. She can hear her heartbeat – the _thump, thump, thump_ speeding up and she _knows_ he can hear it as well and she is reminded of that moment in that wizard film Malcolm made her watch when the hero’s godfather is falling through a veil to his death and she remembers scoffing at the slow-motion – scoffing at filmmakers implying that time is _slowing_ because nothing is certain in life _but_ time, time _always_ passes – time doesn’t _wait_ for people to experience life because _time doesn’t slow down_.

But in this moment she understands it.

For the first time ever, she understands time standing still and she can _feel_ it – she can _feel_ the acute _awareness_ that time is changing its pace and giving way to one, solitary event – bending and transforming itself into an impossible _crawl_ – one moment expanding, spreading and _dragging out_ into seconds and minutes and hours and she knows and she knows and she _knows_ that despite her heartbeat gaining speed and her lungs losing their ability to _breathe_ and her wrist _burning_ from the touch of his fingertips – this moment in time is something she is _not escaping_ until its impact _burns_ through her body.

“Someday,” he murmurs in a low, throaty voice that breaks her reverie, “you might want someone.” He lifts his free hand to trace a new path of flames across her cheekbones, burning, burning, _burning._

“I would like the chance to be that someone.”

She blinks and he’s gone. The heat remains.

***

 _1:03AM:_ Drop the case, Jessica. Otherwise, rest assured the next Phantoms will know how to fight back.

 


End file.
